Man Oh Man
by puredirtynostalgia
Summary: AU, modern day, retelling. Haruhi is a scholarship student at a prestigious university, and so type A she's never really learned to have fun. While seeking out a quiet place to study at a local cafe, she meets the very sexy owners and staff, who've just received quite an unusual review in the school paper.


_Ouran U Gazette, page 15 restaurant review, October 15:_

 **MAN OH MAN**

Rachael Prince

Walking in to casual local eatery Music Room is an assault on the eyes - in a very, very good way.

I don't just mean the tasteful, hipster-inspired decor, which would make any design student blush.

I'm talking hotties.

Sure, sure, I could spend some column inches (sorry, couldn't help it) talking salads, which are beautifully balanced and surely filled with actual crack along with nutritionally sound, local-sourced ingredients, because I can't stop thinking about them. Or I could wax lyrical on the burgers, which are made of seriously prime beef, cooked to perfection and drizzled with sauce that drips seductively down your chin, pooling in wet patches on the napkin in your lap. Or the divine coffee, strong and robust, and can be served as your morning caffeine hit or in a martini.

But why bother, when I could talk about Kyoya?

Tall, dark and handsome, Kyoya is pale as the moon and wears adorable hipster glasses. From the second you step in the door, this high-class hottie is all over you - a careful arm in the small of your back, guiding you to your table, asking you about your day, telling you you have beautiful eyes, then carelessly rebuffing you as he ushers over your waiter, who is basically a blonde child, and never seems to stop talking. Like shut up, where is Kyoya, bring back Kyoya.

Other hotties flutter about, evoking obvious personality ploys to win tips. There's the twins, tending both bar and coffee machines, brushing sensuously past each other as they shake up cocktails and pull beers. Worst - the tall, blond head waiter I watched attending other table. Leaning down to whisper a compliment, set a napkin, lay a fork. The kitchen is open, and anyone who cares to can watch the cook work - when he is working, since he seems to spend half the time helping my child waiter out with large trays.

Look, I guess not everyone can be as classy as Kyoya. But he's mine, so good luck with this other hot messes. Who are, look, objectively very attractive.

There's really only one thing left to decide, ladies.

Are you ready to get filled up?

Address: 255 School St

Style: Casual dining, bar

Price Range: $$

 _Rachael Prince, usually our online gossip columnist, is filling in this week for Trisha St James, who is out with food poisoning and will be back with us next week._

 _Ms Hurst would like to formally retract her previous four star review of Bob's Kebab Hut on Smith St._

—

You'd think given the sheer size of OU, there'd be at least one quiet place to really hit the books.

You'd be wrong.

I tried yesterday. I went to a glassed-in room in the library called The Quiet Zone. The door had a big sign:

NO EATING

NO DRINKING

NO MUSIC

NO TALKING

NO MOBILE PHONES

Unfortunately, the writer forgot to add:

NO MAKING OUT ON TABLES

Because that's what the people next to me started doing ten minutes after I sat down.

Loudly.

'But why can't you study at home Haruhi?" I hear you ask.

Sure, let's do a review of my neighbours, shall we.

There's the older couple upstairs, who seemingly never stop fighting.

The cocaine addict next door, who never sleeps and is trying to teach himself the French horn.

And there's the girl downstairs, who according to the seemingly daily loud Skype calls she has with her mum is "stressed out of her mind with the workload" and "miserable since Jason dumped her."

For most people this would mean going out to a bar and making out with someone on a dance floor, or studying quietly in her pyjamas - but to her means listening to angry emo music on full blast and crying all day.

Except for the times when Jason comes over and they have loud sex.

I know it's him, because she likes to scream his name. Also God's name, but mostly Jason's.

Literally everyone in the world but me is having a good time.

But I, unlike all these rich psychopaths, am not here to get all my wild young years out in a fit of abandon. I don't have a trust fund to fall back on, or a guaranteed job at daddy's law firm, or the chance to temp at my cousin's start up that he "built all on his own" using money he inherited from grandma.

So instead of sitting at home, surrounded by noise and the distraction of the delicious pile of library books I borrowed that have nothing to do with the mathematics I need so desperately to revise, I am going out.

I've hunted through the couch and my wallet and the pile of small coins that seem to collect compulsively on my nightstand and I've got $8. That's $2.60 a day until next week's money comes through. I'm going to find some cheap, quiet little diner, buy the cheapest drink on the menu, and hunker down. And while I'm there, I can download next week's readings on their free wifi. No more trips to makeup point, otherwise known as the library, for me.

But everywhere I go there's a bunch of damn rich kids sitting around being loud, drinking (it's 9am!), flirting, eating (the insanely overpriced food they serve in the cafes around here is a constant temptation) and smoking cigarettes (and other stuff).

Until I round into a quiet side street, pass a funky vintage clothing shop, and nearly walk right past a set of ornate older-style doors, richly painted a deep purple-blue, with handles of seemingly deliberately aged gold.

Right above them sat a tiny, printed sign that read 'open', but I couldn't see any other signs of life. The interior was dimly lit, and it was one of those damn hipster-style eateries who don't have their name above the doors. It took me a minute of searching to finally find the cafe's name, printed on a small swinging sign that hung out on a rod over the door.

"Music room" it said.

Weird.

But let's be honest, I was out of options. At least it seemed quiet.

I took hold of the little handle and pushed, poking my head cautiously around the door.

And there, in the space that normally exists in the very front of a restaurant, where guests wait for a table and hostesses smile and couples have passive aggressive conversations about who forgot to make a reservation, were seven men.

Seven very attractive men.

All staring at me.

And they didn't seem shocked to see me.

"Welcome," they all said, seemingly in sing-sing unison.

They stood for a beat, faces beaming.

And that's how I found them.

Then they looked at each other and gave a little laugh.

Oh God, I'd wandered into some kind of cult. It must be. It's the only explanation.

Quick, shut the door.

The grandfather clock that stood to one side of the door ticked ominously.

'This was a mistake' I thought to myself. 'A huge, huge mistake," I was about to pull the door back towards me, when suddenly, a voice rang out.

"Oh my god, it's a boy!"

I froze.

The boy the voice belonged to was medium height, with a careful light build - broad shoulders, lean everywhere else, with thick, floppy red hair.

The guy beside him - who looked exactly the same, surely a twin brother, have him a light shove.

It didn't really bother me, that he thought I was a boy - I sort of do look like one sometimes, and especially today. My chin length hair's a mess, matted and greasy. My shower's hot water was out, and I hated washing it at the best of times. I was in my favourite studying clothes - soft, old boy's jeans, found in the attic, a relic of my dad's youth, and a big grey wool jumper with two big holes, through which you just see my favourite white cotton tee, now yellowing at the arm pits.

But why was he shocked to see a boy walking in to a cafe.

A tall, pale man with dark hair, standing almost entirely at the group's left, smiled coolly at me, and said in the twin's direction.

"Don't be so rude."

His voice was as smooth as honey.

"Welcome, we're just opening now, can I.."

"Wait," interrupted a blond.

Of course, I'd noticed him straight away. If the other boys were good looking, this one was a supermodel. Tall without being freakish, well-muscled without looking like a bodybuilder, tousled blonde hair the perfect amount of effort and no effort. Like all the others, he was wearing a simple uniform of a white buttoned shirt and tan chinos, but unlike the others, he'd added a pair of suspenders and a white rose tucked in his buttonhole. He was seated while all the others were standing, on one of the restaurants charmingly mismatched chairs - a pink and gold thing with a plush seat.

"I know you," he said.


End file.
